Of Angels and Demons
by Serena M00N
Summary: FrUk PruCan Human names Ten-years-old Alfred. Angels, Demons, Insanity, and as many of the countries as I can possibly fit. When you die, your first task is to become someones Shoulder "Angel" or "Demon," serving, with a partner, as their conscience from birth till death. However, sometimes a partnership is dangerously unbalanced, and Headquarters has to send in "reinforcements."
1. Prologue

**Hey peoples, guess what! I've written a prologue! And, in further news, I'm also thinking of publishing this story on Wattpad. Actually, it's almost definite that I'm going to, as I've just created an account (It's TormaDevan.) I'm also going to be going back through my previous chapters and doing some editing, and maybe adding a bit more information here and there, so feel free to point out any literary mistakes! I don't mind Grammar Nazi's, so don't be shy! **

Prologue

There are universes beyond our own. However, even though we share the same space as they do, we can never touch.

Some among us posses a clarity needed to peer into these other worlds, to look in and catch a snapshot of what these places are like, of the stories that are present there. Some can _see_ into these worlds clearly, and, searching for and finding those of us in our own universe who are the parallels of those present in the story they wish to share, they create a movie, or a show, to share the experience of viewing another world. If they can't do this through live action, or if they simply don't want to, they may do this through artwork, graphic novels, or animation.

Some see literally a single picture, and a realm of possibility in the story behind it. These are more traditional artists. Others can perceive the very thoughts of those beyond our realm. These are those involved in the makings of films, shows, and graphic novels. In anime and manga and comics and cartoons.

Then there are those who do not _see_, but _feel_. There realm is words, not pictures. They _invented_ words, to try and describe the other worlds. They are the writers. The poets, the scriptwriters. The authors of novels.

Some, who find words fail them in describing what they sense, turn instead to music, in an attempt to share these feelings more clearly. They are musicians. Composers, and singers, and bands.

Each of these tasks is a hard one. Some are capable of performing more than one, but many must search for another who can see into the world or worlds they perceive, to help carry the load.

But they are all driven to share what they know. To share the worlds they can see or feel so clearly, even if they do not realize what it is. Once they do, they open a window for others to look into these worlds. And for some, who have that same clarity, to look beyond the world presented, into other, branching worlds.

That clarity is imagination.

This story, as all stories do, takes place in one of these worlds.

First, you must look to a window. In this instance, I speak of Hetalia.

Look through the window.

You see countries personified, and their lives as such.

Find a branch of alternate universes where these characters are no longer countries, but human.

Scroll through. Find the universes such as these which contain supernatural or spiritual elements.

Continue on through to the section labeled 'Angels, Demons, Ghosts, and other Post-Life Creatures'.

There are still too many to simply look through them. Lets narrow the category further. To universes where encounters with such creatures are an accepted and natural piece of everyday life.

This will have to do. Look for a universe that reminds you of the expression, "devil on your shoulder."

Have you found it yet?

Didn't think so. There are endless possibilities.

I'll try to help you a bit more, then.

You're looking for a universe where every single person is born with an "Angel" or "Demon" "on their shoulder." Meaning that each person is assigned two Spirits, one aligned with "Hell," the other with "Heaven," which are held responsible for the moral alignment of that person. And every person, after their death, is required to do one term of service as one of these said "Angels" or "Demons," depending on the success of their moral upbringing to one side or another.

One term means one lifetime. The lifetime of whichever person you are assigned to. After which, they are given a choice. Continue service, and shape the morals of another youth. Retire, and go on to the afterlife, which is simply a place where no one dies or grows any older or is ill, one that can be changed to suit your fancies on a whim, to a small degree. And it doesn't matter whether you worked as a Demon or an Angel. Or stay on Earth as a "ghost." No "heaven," no benefits. You're still stuck on earth, but you are no longer expected to provide anyone with moral guidance, and never will be.

All of which is run by "Headquarters," an organization with three divisions; Heaven, Hell, and Afterlife. Shoulder Angels fall under the jurisdiction of Heaven. Shoulder Demons under Hell's. And the well-being of Spirits after their death is the responsibility of Afterlife. Each of these three divisions is run by an elected representative. No one knows the mastermind behind Headquarters itself, but they do know the spokesperson: Wang Yao, an ancient Spirit claiming to be one of the oldest, and therefore the wisest. He insists that _he_ is the ruler of Headquarters, but everyone knows that he's taking orders from _someone_.

I hope that that has been enough information to lead you here.

There are many stories present in this universe. So many different adventures to choose from and illustrate for you.

But I think I'll show you one that encompases many stories.

One about a ten-year-old boy, Alfred F. Jones, and the chain of events that he triggers when he runs away from home.


	2. Chapter One: Reevaluated

**A-hem. Alright, so... Business first, then the story. Speaking of, my other two are on HIATUS. Not quite giving up, just leaving it be for a while. A long while, but I actually wrote quite a bit of **_**this**_** fanfiction **_**before**_** I began typing it, so this one actually might be updated in a timely manner. At least during the summer.**

**As for my excuses, I do have them, I'm just not going to trouble you with them. **

**Anyway, (this is the last thing before I get to the story, I swear it) if I had something that I actually owned, I probably would be here, gloating, but that's besides the point. The point is that I don't own Hetalia.**

Chapter One; Reevaluated.

"Alfred, I don't think you should…"

"Oh, don't listen to Birdie, Alfred! This is so totally awesome! Almost as awesome as you getting _me_ as your Shoulder Demon!"

"Alfred…"

"Shut up, both of you." Alfred says, as he crouches behind the sunflowers in his neighbor's yard, trying to ignore the two small, winged people sitting on either of his shoulders.

He had to, didn't he? If he was going to survive on his own. He needed food, and money, and those snob neighbors of his wouldn't miss a couple hundred dollars. Hell, he'd seen the mother blow a couple thousand like nothing. And he couldn't go home. Not now.

He wasn't aware of speaking aloud, but he must have, because suddenly, Matthew bursts out, "What are you _thinking_, Alfred! Of course you can go home! Your Mom probably doesn't even know you're gone."

"And if she does?" Alfred's lips barely move as he says this, his eyes still focusing on the mansion in front of him, looking for a weakness in the "security;" locked doors. Gilbert had taught him how to pick locks, but he wasn't very good, and he wasn't very fast. If he had to take the time to sit by the front door and fiddle with it's lock, the likelihood of him getting caught increased exponentially. No, what he needed was…

An open window. Perfect.

"She doesn't." Matthew snorts, making his large, feathery white wings rustle as he adjusts the halo floating an inch above his chin-length blond hair. "Not after the sleeping pills Gilbert had you put in her supper, though why, I don't know. She sleeps like a rock as it is."

Gilbert is lying back on Alfred's shoulder, arms folded behind his head, bat-like wings tucked flat beneath his back, tail moving lazily as he lays there. His dark hood is covering his snow-white hair, his ruby eyes closed as he grins, smug as a Chesire cat. "Simple, Mattie. It was awesome. Like in a movie. Slip drugs into the jailer's food, then make your escape."

Matthew rolls his violet eyes, before refocusing on the boy on whose shoulder he was currently riding. "Please, Alfred. Don't do this. There's no reason to. You're not in trouble yet, and your Mom never _really _punishes you anyways. If you turn back now, we can all just pretend this never happened."

Matthew doesn't understand. Part of the reason Alfred is doing this is _because_ his mother never notices him, or hardly ever. She's always in her room, worrying about his father, who'd joined the army for the sake of a family tradition. One his father expected Alfred to carry on, as evident by the bomber jacket his father had sent him for his last birthday. And, when not worrying, his mother's maintaining his father's business, which made parts or something. Alfred wasn't really sure. But apparently it was good money, because they could afford to live in _this_ neighborhood.

"I'm telling you, Alfred, he doesn't know what he's talking about. No one ever has adventures from home. Besides, it's not like you've just decided to live on the streets forever. After we get to Emily's, you can live with her."

"She's Amelia now, she hates that nickname, Gil, and she's barely keeping her apartment as it is; it would be wrong to push another mouth unto her. And even then, she lives in New York City, and Alfred can't drive. It'll take forever to get there."

Amelia is Alfred's sister. When he was little, though, he called her 'Meli, since he couldn't pronounce Amelia, and later he called her Emily, just to annoy her. She's in college now, studying to be an actress, while also getting a general degree, but her dream is, and has always been, to be the first woman to play seriously in Major League Baseball. She's his only sibling, and they're very close, but he knows that what Matthew says is true. On top of school, Amelia has to work in order to earn money for food and rent. Their parents paid half of her tuition, and the other was paid by her partial scholarship, but their mother insists she pay for lodging and basic needs herself, _supposedly_ in order to learn responsibility, something their father approves of. But regardless, he's already decided that he won't go to her for help. Not that Mattie or Gil need to know that.

"That's why we're doing this," Gilbert shrugs, not seeing anything particularly wrong with what they were about to do, though knowing others would view it differently. "So we can get supplies. We're Robin Hood stealing from the rich, and giving the goods to ourselves, the poor. And we'll give whatever's left to _Emily_ as a thank-you gift for bringing us in."

"That's not how it works, Gilbert, and, besides, don't you think you're taking this 'demon' thing a bit—oh." The small, sad sound of understanding is accompanied by an expression of uncertainty. Gilbert's reasons _weren't_ unfounded, but… "You still can't drag Alfred off on some fool quest. Look for him online or something. You know what will happen if we let Alfred go through with this. You're letting personal feelings get in the way of your duty."

"I don't care. I can't help it, Matt, you _know_ he's like a brother to me. It's been ten years, and he didn't just lose me. He lost his mother, too. I need to know how he's doing, and I can't, not if Alfred doesn't do this."

"You _want_ to be reevaluated?!" Matthew is incredulous. He doesn't really understand how someone might _want_ to be regarded as inadequately able to do a job, but, then, Gilbert has been doing this longer than he has.

The Prussian snickers, leaning against Alfred's head. "Spoken like a true new-be. I've been reevaluated before. Nothing happens, except that another assignment is added to your list, and you get stuck with some stuffy, 'experienced' Spirits 'helping' you for the remainder of your current assignment."

"A-hem." Matthew turns, startled, wings almost smacking into the short, blond haired Angel that has appeared behind him. Especially when compared to Matthew, currently dressed in a Canadian sweatshirt adorned with a maple-leaf, the man was ridiculously traditional, wearing a white, one-shoulder, knee-length toga, and no shoes, as well as one of the plainest golden Halo's in Matthew's, admittedly limited, experience (Matthew had a small maple-leaf attached to his). The only apparent personal touch the newcomer seemed to have added was a small, circular locket with a strange engraving.

"Yes, well, I'll be one of the, how was it that you put it? Yes, 'stuffy, 'experienced' Spirits 'helping' you' until your current assignment joins us in the spiritual realm. Speaking of, I assume that this fellow here is my new assignment?" says the Shoulder Angel, in his thick british accent, pointing to Alfred's head. "Bloody young. The two of you couldn't even handle ten years?"

Gilbert peers at the green-eyed Angel from behind Alfred's neck, curious. He's been reevaluated twice before, and he'd never seen this Angel, though he'd heard that he had been given the pair who were most common in these cases, which was largely why he'd referred to the Spirits who would join them as "Stuffy." And despite the recent rise in population, re-evaluations aren't actually all that common. "What happened to Elizaveta, and Roderich? Aren't _they_ supposed to help the reevaluated? And where's the new Demon?"

The Angel holds up a hand to stop the barrage of questions, sighing once before beginning to reply. "How about you let me answer each question _before_ proceeding with the next eight million. Yes, Elizaveta and Roderich _are _typically the one's who help the reevaluated... when the problem is irresponsibility, and not a severe personality and swaying power imbalance in the Angel-Demon team. But, besides that, they're already on assignment, so they're not available, in any case. And as for the new Demon… Well, I'm sure Headquarters will send someone—"

There's a bang, and a taller blond appears, this one a Demon with a hairstyle similar to Matthew's, wearing a simple black suit with a blood red rose in it's jacket pocket. Rather than the typical horns, he has pointed ears, and lacks a tail, though he does have large, black-feathered wings. He shortly begins yelling, in a french accent, about how they "couldn't do this to him" and "he hadn't done anything_ wrong _this time" and "why should _he_ have to help some incompetent fools at the cost of _his_ freedom."

"Any minute. Well, speak of the devil and all that." Arthur laughs nervously. "Terribly sorry to young Alfred, for all of the confusion. Anyway, I'm Arthur Kirkland, and I _hope_ we can all get along in the years to come." He finishes quickly, almost panicky as he concludes that that whiny voice could only belong to one person...

That person has fallen silent, also evaluating the other's speech and, turning to confirm that, yes, it was _that_ Arthur Kirkland, he can't help letting out a "hon, hon, hon," that leaves the other's blood cold, so-to-speak.

Except, it seems, Gilbert's.

"Hey, Francis, this is so awesome! It' seems like it's been forever!"

Francis smirks. "Yes. That does tend to happen when you get the two of us put on a practically permanent probation. Of course, _both_ of us _were_ almost out, when you dragged me back into this horrid business."

Gilbert is too busy hugging his old friend to take notice of the slight ice in his friend's tone.

"Um...Guys?"

"Yes, Al?" Matthew asked, coming out of his slight trance.

"Oh, nothing. Just wanted you to know that I was still alive, and that, while you were all arguing, I raided my neighbor''s kitchen, and even managed to snatch about five hundred bucks, not that they'll miss it."

Gilbert jumps up, performing that embarrassing number rather uncomfortably known as the "victory dance."

"Yeah! Go, Al! That was awesome, those Angels didn't even notice!"

"Yes, excellent work… Alfred, was it? I look forward to seeing you among the ranks of Shoulder Demons in the future."

This snaps Arthur out of _his_, much deeper, trance, making him turn his head quickly to glare at Francis, eyes flashing.

"Nothing's been decided, you stupid frog. Bloody hell, the boy's only ten years old, and even if he _does_ have _you_ on his shoulder, whispering those poisoned words of yours into his ear, he's not yet so far gone that I can't drag him back onto the right track."

"Yes, of course," Francis smiles wickedly, leaning nonchalantly against Alfred. "Nothing's been decided. It's _entirely_ possible that you can bring this boy away from the path of sinful fun and back on the hard, toiling path of righteousness. Just like you put 'Jack-the-Ripper' back on track. Or Adolf Hitler. Actually, now that I think of it, one of the only times you ever beat _me_ in the battle of morality was with little Alice, and we both know know where _she_ is now."

"You were Hitler's Shoulder Angel?" Alfred asks, intrigued.

"Damned Wanker!" Arthur shouts at the same time, "She was my daughter, you heartless bastard!" A furious Arthur lunges at the apparently smug Francis, but Matthew is trying to hold him down, and Gilbert is blocking his way.

"Temper, Temper," Francis taunts, clicking his tongue, "You ought to be careful, mon petit lapin. You might just be switched to Demon if you can't keep it in check."

"Righteous anger is encouraged as Angel behaviour, and you know it." Arthur retorts, scoffing as he plops down onto Alfred's shoulder in resignation, slightly calmer. "Besides, Headquarters wouldn't dare to reassign me. Especially not about something related to Alice. They know _some_ limits, at least."

"You were Hitler's Shoulder-Angel?" Alfred repeats, a bit impatiently.

"Yes. Quite probably one of the most embarrassing assignments of my career. Unfortunately, the Holocaust can't be blamed on Francis, though, or I'd be free of him. He'd have been permanently taken off duty, and it would have been anything but a retirement. Besides, he's not one for murder. His favorite sin is usually a bit more artistic. No, I'm not even sure if Hitler knew we were real, or if he heard us at all, considering the number of voices he had housed in his head..." Arthur answers, trailing off in thought.

"Voices? So, he _was_ crazy," Alfred says, nodding.

"Yes. Although, I do have a theory about insanity. There are some specific voices that keep popping up, _usually_ only when I've been assigned another barmy nutter, but it's still strange that the same ones keep popping up."

Alfred is quiet as he realizes exactly what it was that Arthur had said, and then he asks, "Wait, you knew? Can you read minds, or something?"

Arthur shifts uncomfortably. "Well… yes, but not _much _more than any other Angel. It's just that while most only receive vague ideas of what their charges are feeling or thinking, to help prevent the possibility of being deceived by them, I can sometimes feel specifics, like what someone might be hiding if they try to tell only a partial truth, or different voices or tones in their thoughts."

Alfred is too tired to be particularly alarmed, but Matthew is looking at Arthur in slight awe, and not a little curiosity. If _he_ were able to get a bit more knowledge out of Alfred's thick skull, it probably would've been a bit longer before they were reevaluated. Though the boy was so stubborn that it was unlikely he could have put this off for too much longer.

Arthur is still rather uncomfortable. He doesn't like talking about his abilities, especially when some of them are often doubted. Like some of the ways he comes across information. It wasn't just slight _mind-reading_, that was certain. And the fact that he could read the minds of those who were a bit off their trolley better than those who were sane was regarded with suspicion. So, he decides to get back to business.

"Alfred, are you really serious about running away?" Arthur is trying to change the subject, how cute. "Alfred?"

"He's asleep," Matthew says, half in amusement, half in weariness. "We won't be able to wake him up." Matthew turns his gaze to Gilbert, eyes kind. "Gilbert… Go find Ludwig."

**So? Have I improved? Do you want more? I'll give it to you regardless, as I said, I've already written quite a bit of it, so I might as type it up and feed it too you wolves. I say that endearingly, of course.**

**The only cookie I want is called the review-chip cookie, and it is the golden apple of writer-food. But I can and will use any and all flames to perform Black Magic on the senders. Only semi-harmless, bad-luck curses, though.**

***This Chapter has been edited, but if you find a mistake, whether it be grammar, punctuation, exact repetition, etc. please inform me via a review or PM.**


	3. Chapter Two: Discovered Identities

**Alright, lets try this again. I told you I already had quite a bit of this written, and here's the proof. **

**No, I don't own Hetalia, that's absolutely ridiculous.**

**Anyway, on with the story...**

Chapter Two; Discovered Identities

Gilbert turns, teleporting to the house he had lived in when he had been the Shoulder Demon of Monika, Ludwig's mother. He wasn't certain that Ludwig would actually be here, but it was a start, at least. It would be faster to just contact Feliciano, or Lovino, but if Ludwig was bitter that he had stayed away for so long, he didn't want to be turned away before actually setting eyes on the boy he'd come to love as a brother in the seven years that he had known him.

Gilbert frowns. When Gil had known him, the very thought of Ludwig being bitter, or even holding a grudge, would have been inconceivable. But it had been ten, years, and a lot could happen in ten years. Especially after losing everything, like Ludwig had. Other than his mother, and the four Shoulder Angels and Demons that had inhabited their home, Ludwig had had no one. He was probably in a foster home somewhere, waiting to turn eighteen.

Gil finds himself struggling with second thoughts. What made him thin that _this_ would be a good idea? He should have been patient, waited for nature to do its thing, and re-unite with Ludwig after either Alfred or Ludwig died. This was bound to get awkward...

A click in the lock surprises him, and he turns to see a baby-faced man with soft brown hair carrying groceries, most noticeably an entire brown bag of bright red tomatoes, and wearing a loose white shirt and jeans. This must be Antonio, a man Francis had told him about. The one assigned to Roderich and Elizaveta.

And Ludwig.

They stare at each other for a moment, stunned. Then something flies toward the albino, arms out for a hug, yelling something in Italian, the force of whose launch almost sends them both skidding a few feet.

As the Italian Shoulder Angel reaches him, Gilbert looks down at him, flustered. Feliciano, at least, was the same as ever. He even had the same look. A shirtless outfit consisting of a short, loose white skirt and, thankfully, underwear. He wasn't wearing shoes yet, either. He'd gotten rid of the halo, though. And his wings weren't quite as… flamboyant as they had been. "Oh… Hey, Feli. Almost forgot you were a hugger," he says, chuckling uncomfortably. Oh well. No turning back now.

"Gilbert… Is that really you?"

Gilbert takes a moment to soak in Ludwig's appearance before he lets out another nervous chuckle. The eyes were the same blue, though they were more serious now. The hair the same light blond, cut the same as it used to be, even, except that Ludwig kept his bangs out of his eyes now. He still dresses immaculately, too. And he'd grown up tall and muscular, but well-proportioned, not over-kill steroids body builder. Gilbert is glad. Ludwig seems healthy enough. "Yeah, sorry I didn't check up on you earlier, West,but I got re-assigned after, you-know, and I haven't been able to get away until now…" he finished, rubbing the back of his head.

Roderich lets out a self-righteous sigh, because naturally he has to act like a stuck-up prick (Which is why _he's_ the Demon, and Elizaveta is the Angel, despite her more obvious devious tendencies) and pushes up his glasses as he says, "Reevaluated _again_, Gilbert? One would think you _liked_ to be forced into indentured service." Roderich was sitting on Antonio's shoulder, probably contemplating another symphony, judging by the fact that his white suit was slightly crumpled. The only time he would ever allow such a thing to happen would be while he was composing. Music had been his life. If his music sheets hadn't been consumed by the fire that took both his and Elizaveta's lives while they slept, he would undoubtedly have been revered as one of the great composers.

Gilbert shrugs, not really caring about the Austrian's weak jibe. "I had to check on West."

"Um…" Antonio looks uncomfortable as he tries to enter the conversation. "Clearly this is a very intimate moment, and I don't mean to intrude, but… Could someone please explain what's going on?"

It _is_ a touching moment. Really. But Gil and Ludwig are both so awkward...

"Shut up, tomato-bastard. No one wants to—"

Lovino has changed his look a little bit since Gil last saw him. He was more put-together now, less slovenly. He still wears a simple collared shirt and plain khakis, but they no longer look as though he's slept in them.

Feliciano holds a hand over his twins mouth, cringing in embarrassment. "Lovino…" He begs, "Please be quiet. This is a very touching moment for Ludwig, and you don't need to ruin it any more than you already have…"

Lovino ducks out of Feli's arms, freeing his mouth. "I don't care if that potato-bastard and his bastard pseudo-brother get upset. I just hate the sound of that tomato-bastards voice!"

After a short scuffle, Feliciano again succeeds in rendering his brother "speechless." Over the years, he's had quite a bit of practice in this area. They were younger than Elizaveta and Rodrich, but older than Gilbert, and they usually ended up with another assignment because of Lovino's foul mouth.

"Sorry about that, Gil, you know what he's like." He says, holding the still-struggling Lovino. "Antonio, Gilbert was Ludwigs mother's Shoulder Demon, and the two of them were like brothers for the first seven years of Ludwigs life, until his mother died. Then, Gilbert was forced to take another assignment, and they haven't seen each other for ten years."

"I see." says Antonio, looking sideways at the Italian shoulder-angel (Feli said all of that in one breath, and very, very fast.) Then he turns to Gil, smiling. "Hello, I am Antonio, the man who owns this house now, and after he explained his history with the house, I agreed to let Ludwig rent his old room. Will you be coming here often?"

"Probably…" He _wanted_ to, but it would be so awkward… Actually, he would. He definitely would. Gilbert Beilschmidt does not give up on his friends just because of a little awkwardness. Besides, after the first few visits, it won't be so bad.

"I _am_ curious, Gilbert." Elizaveta says over her shoulder as she writes something down in her notebook. "With us on assignment… Who's assisting you?"

"Francis—"

Elizaveta starts, abandoning the notebook. "Really?! But I thought they sent Arthur to help the your Angel, um…"

"Matthew. And yes, they did."

Elizaveta stands, her wings fanning out in alarm, the notebook sliding off her lap.. "What are they thinking?! They'll tear each other apart!"

"What are you talking about, Eliza?" Gilbert says, confused. "Yes, there seems to be some bad history between the two of them, but it didn't look like either had any murderous intentions. Just a lot of sexual tension and yelling."

"Maybe that's all it is now," Elizaveta concedes, picking up her notebook and placing it safely within the pocket of her apron, "but that _idiot_, Francis, is going to bring Arthur to murder the dead, I know he is. He just can't leave well enough alone. He was Arthur's first partner."

"I still don't understand what you're talking about."

Elizaveta shakes her head. "You mean, you're going to be _working _with him, and you don't know who Arthur really is?" She asks, incredulous.

Gilbert shakes his head. "I wouldn't need you to explain, if I did."

She sighs, exasperated. "Arthur is the Hand of Heaven."

Gilbert feels his stomach drop. He's heard the stories about assignments given to the Hand of Heaven during his second assignment. Had told Matthew the stories to pass the time before Alfred could walk or talk. Stories about potential serial killers and assignments with slowly eroding minds. The Hand of Heaven, one of the oldest Angels still on duty. It was rumored that the Heaven department of Headquarters wouldn't _let _him retire, because he had been around so long that, otherwise, it was a true wonder that he hadn't retired. It was even rumored that he had tried, many times, to achieve a second death, though whether there simply wasn't any way, or he'd succeeded, and then been brought back to continue doing Heavens dirty work, was anybody's guess.

Either way, it was the law that _everyone_, even those beyond redemption, must be provided with a Shoulder Angel, and a Shoulder Demon. And Headquarters favorite answer to a seemingly irredeemable case was the Hand of Heaven.

Then, Gilbert thinks back to sweet, innocent, if mischievous and (thanks to Gilbert) misguided, Alfred. Why was _he _the assignment of someone like the Hand of Heaven? And what did Francis have to do with…

Suddenly, it hits him.

"You mean that _Francis_ is…"

"Yes."

"But… Why would the two of _them_…" Gilbert continues, still wondering about the involvement of two legendary Shoulder Spirits with his small charge. After all, it really _had_ been just a simple reevaluation.

"Don't worry about it, Gil." says Elizaveta nonchalantly, sensing Gilberts uneasiness. "Alfred's probably a sort of reward-assignment. Every once in a while, after he's convinced a future serial killer to not kill throughout his _entire_ life, or after a particularly upsetting assignment, such as Adolf Hitler, the Heaven department, or sometimes Headquarters themselves, will award him with an easy, sane assignment. And Francis is probably there because Headquarters was sick of the two of them being so at odds for all these centuries. It looks like they've finally to let them battle it out. Don't worry, though. Arthur's professional enough to not let personal issues interfere with the moral molding of young Alfred. Still, it'll be difficult working with them."

"Why doesn't Headquarters just keep the two apart?"

Elizaveta shrugs. "They're the best and the worst, Heaven's Hand and Hell's Fist. Headquarters likes to pair them up, and if they could manage to not fight so much, they'd actually succeed in stopping more killers."

"Makes sense," says Gil, nodding, "Um… Could you tell me?" he continues, not a little awkwardly. "What happened? During their first assignment?"

Elizaveta looks startled. 'Why?"

"Just… Curious, I guess. I've heard stories, but who's to say what's really true. And if I'm actually going to be working with the real deals..."

Elizaveta sighs, but nods, then says, "I don't know all the details, but I suppose this is the gist of it: They were assigned to a young girl named Alice, who, for some reason or other, possessed powers, much like those that Arthur had possessed when _he_ was alive. She stayed on the strait-and-narrow her whole life, and apparently Arthur got attached. Francis barely even tried to steer her off course… She was just such a sweet little girl, and everyone knew that when she died, she was bound to be the most amazing Angel… And Heaven, no… Headquarters couldn't wait. They saw how perfectly Arthur had turned out as a Shoulder Angel, how well his powers had manifested, and they decided that they had to have Alice immediately. Before she could be corrupted in any way. While she was still so young, before puberty, before hardship, before she could grow up… So, they… gave the kill order.

"But Arthur swore he wouldn't let them. He pleaded with Headquarters, begged them to just wait until she died naturally. When they wouldn't listen, he was frantic, fighting and calling for Francis to help, but he just stood by. And when the battle ended, Alice was dead. But Headquarters didn't win either, because the soul they finally lifted from Alice's body… it was twisted, scarred, and burned beyond recognition. It looked like Alice, but it was like the soul of someone who had seen and experienced inexplicable horrors, and been driven mad by them. Arthur nearly lost his _own_ mind when he saw it. I can't even comprehend what it must be to see that. Especially Arthur, with his added sensitivity. He'd have been able to see exactly how poor her condition was. Headquarters, at least, learned their lesson, and they haven't given the kill order for selfish reasons since, and when necessary, they kill indirectly. And they never battle over a soul like they did with Alice.

"But ever since, they've still used Arthurs resistance to work him to the bone. And Arthur doesn't protest when he's been given a new assignment, because he hasn't forgiven himself. But that doesn't matter, because he doesn't have a choice. He gets the standard five-year vacation every five assignments, but other than that he must work endlessly. He can't retire, and he can't even escape by giving up his place and becoming a ghost. And you'd think, after all these years, he'd have served his penance. But for whatever reason, Headquarters, or maybe it's Arthur himself, doesn't think so."

Gilbert is silent, eyes downcast. He couldn't imagine… What if it was him? What would _he_ have done if the order had been to kill someone precious to him, like Ludwig…? The very idea was awful. "His own daughter…" He murmured.

The others gasped.

"Gil… You can't mean…"

Gilbert lifted his eyes, putting it out of his mind.

"I'd better get back. If you're right about those two, Mattie's going to need help. Besides, I don't want to come back to poor Alfred being woken up by a bloodbath. Bye, West! I'll visit again soon!"

**AND NOW, if you will direct your attention to the words below, I have something to say.**

**Why do none of you review? I know that my story has been looked at, but not **_**one**_** of you have reviewed, except for my own sister. Don't get me wrong, those three follows are greatly appreciated. However, as food for an authors soul, reviews are much more satisfying. **

**And yes, I know that the story has only been on for a day. On the other hand, most views come in the first few days being online, and I know that there have been quite a few already. At **_**least**_** more than 50 people have viewed this story, and I just want some feedback. **

**I don't mean to offend anyone, and I know how difficult reviewing can be via mobile. But please…**

**Feed a starving author?**

***This chapter has been edited, but please feel free to aid me by pointing out any questions, concerns, mistakes, etc. in a review.**

**~Serena**


	4. Chapter Three: Hopelessly in love?

**First of all, a huge 'Thank-You' to my two other reviewers. Do I wish more of you would review? Yes, I do. Am I satisfied? Not quite, but my hunger **_**has**_** abated. **

**Next, I was asked to explain my universe by one of the said reviewers, and so I shall.**

**Alfred is ten years old, and living. He is also Matthew's first assignment. He lives in a nice part of town, which is why he has rich neighbors, because his dad is rich, but his dad is literally never around, and his mom doesn't pay much attention to him. His older sister Amelia, who he used to call 'Meli, and later Emily, because he couldn't pronounce her name when he was little, is in college to be an actress, but is also getting a general degree. Her dream, however, is to be the first woman to play seriously on a Major League Baseball team.**

**Mattie is a Shoulder Angel, which means he has to spend Alfreds entire life trying to keep him in check. After that, he would have been given the choice to "move on," which is basically retirement, or become a ghost, which is sort of like quitting a job. No benefits, no "heaven," you're still stuck on earth, you just no longer have to provide anyone with moral guidance. And you lose the limited physical form you would have as a Shoulder Spirit. Except that Gil got them reevaluated, so now both of them are only given the option of taking another assignment. Which is an option anyways, it just has no real benefits. Like a job where you get payed in room and board, except that you could have decided to get room and board for free if you'd wanted to. When he was alive, Francis was his Shoulder Demon.**

**Gilbert is Matthews current partner. He has had three assignments before Alfred. His first lived to be an old man, but during that time Gilbert, and his partner, an Angel named Sophia, managed to get reevaluated **_**twice**_** because of him, resulting in first Roderich and Elizaveta, and then Francis, and an Angel named Lucille, joining them. Gilbert also got Francis and himself in some major trouble, but they were not officially reevaluated again because Headquarters (Which is like Heaven and Hell combined as a company, and basically runs the whole Shoulder Angels/Demons show, even though nobody knows who the real mastermind is.) thought that it might be a bit much to expect **_**another **_**pair of Shoulder Spirits to share the already-crowded space. Gilbert managed to avoid being evaluated during his next two assignments, an unnamed woman (Gil heard the stories about the "Hand of Heaven" and the "Fist of Hell" then, and he told Matthew the stories when Alfred was just a baby.) , and Ludwig's mother, Monika. Alfred was going to be his last mandatory assignment when Gil purposefully got reevaluated so that he could check on Ludwig. Gilbert **_**is**_** Prussian, because he died before it was dissolved.**

**Francis had been out of the game for ten years, after Matthew, happily(ish) retired. He was initially irritated at Gil for, once again, dragging him back into the business, but they had become friends during Gilberts first assignment, and, besides, he gets to see Arthur.**

**Arthur, like Francis, has been around for many centuries. You'll learn more about the two of them soon enough.**

**I left the two of them mostly blank because I intend on explaining it throughout the story.**

**The Vargas twins have been around for a bit, and they're almost always partners. Feli is the Angel, and Lovi the Demon, for obvious reasons. They died together. Both of them are currently Ludwig's Shoulder Spirits. Lovino's sour temper and tongue are the reason that they haven't retired yet.**

**I think I explained Ludwig well enough, but here's a recap, and a little extra. Gilbert was his mother's Shoulder Demon, and the two of them were like brothers until Ludwig was seven, and his mother died in a car accident, while Gil was forced to move on. He had no other family, and his father was conspicuously absent (Gilbert won't talk about it, and neither would Ludwig's mother.) He lived in foster homes until recently, and is now an emancipated teen renting from Antonio.**

**Antonio is living. Francis knows that he is assigned to Elizaveta and Roderich, and not much else. I said "a man Francis had told him about" because Francis **_**did**_** tell Gil about him, when Gil asked him why Elizaveta and Roderich hadn't been the ones to help him after he was reevaluated.**

**Elizaveta and Roderich have been around longer than either Gilbert or the Vargas twins, but not around as long as Arthur and Francis, younger than them by at least a century and a half. They were a married couple in life, and died in a house fire due to smoke inhalation. They are very knowledgeable, **_**always **_**partners, and continue doing assignments by choice. Roderich is the Demon (he insists that it's a mistake) and Elizaveta is the Angel (despite some of her more devious tendencies.)**

**I hope that's an adequate explanation, but if you have any more questions, just state them in a review. If I feel that answering your questions will not ruin a part of the story I have planned, I will answer them in the next chapter.**

Chapter Three; Hopelessly in love?

"I hope you had fun, Gilbert, because it looks like we'll have more trouble keeping those two in line then they will us." Says Matthew, casting an irked glance in the direction of the others.

Gilbert steps onto a sunflower head next to Matthew, nodding. "More difficult than you might think. I met Roderich and Elizaveta at Ludwigs, and apparently, our two new partners are, respectively, the Hand of Heaven, and the Fist of Hell, and they were each others first partners."

Mattie climbs up to Gilberts sunflower, moving to sit beside him, whispering. "You mean…"

"Yup." says Gil, then putting on a voice like a movie announcer. "Thats right, those legendary rivals, the perfect, incredibly dysfunctional team, assigned to all the most hopeless potential scum of the world, are going to be sharing _our_ shoulder space. And that's not all…"

Gilbert proceeds to tell Matthew precisely what Elizaveta had told him, adding his own personal speculation, of course. And in a more sober tone.

"But… That's awful…"

"What is awful, mes amis?"

"N-nothing!" Matthew protests, turning to the French Demon.

"Really?" Francis leans over the two of them, practically looming. "It did not _sound_ like nothing, mes amis, and I _am _curious…" Suddenly, a wicked grin spreads across his face. "Of course, if you'd like to change the subject, we _could _talk about whether or not the two of you are involved with one another… And, if not, why."

"S-stop it, Francis!" Matthew splutters. "C'est rien d'important. You're just being nosy again."

Francis merely narrows his eyes, leaning towards the Canadian. "Do I know you…" Then, it comes to him. "Oh, that's right! You're my last assignment, the Canadian. Knew _you'd_ be an Angel, you were always _so_ polite. I can see why you had to be reevaluated, though. Someone of your temperament shouldn't have been expected to compete with someone as 'outgoing' as Gil in the first place. Especially since he could almost give dear old Iggy a run for his money. Oh, look, the kids awake."

Alfred sits up groggily, and looks, sleepily, in the direction of the Shoulder Spirits.

"Why are there four of you now…?" He slurs, still half asleep. "And one of you is sleeping. I didn't know that you _could_ sleep."

Matthew glances reflexively at the snoring Arthur, saying, "Neither did I. Actually, I meant to ask you about that, Gil."

Gilbert shrugs his shoulders, turning to Francis, who evidently decides to explain, because he says, "When a spirit is made to continue their service far beyond the appointed term, farther than we really should _ever_ be expected to without some sort of drain, learn to 'sleep' as a way to combat the unnatural tiredness of their long 'life.' Of course, it's dangerous, due to the possibility of both a Demon and the human being conscious at the same time, without an angel mediator, which could, admittedly, wreak havoc. Iggy's too dutiful to allow that to happen, but I've learned that if _I _sleep for a few hours, he's bound to sleep for a few more." Suddenly, Francis gains a more mischievous glint to his eye. "And as long as you three don't blow my cover, and I pretend to wake up when he does, Iggy's likely to continue to do so. Although…" Francis smiles wickedly. "I _have_ always wanted to stand over him smugly as he wakes up."

"Iggy?" Alfred repeats. "I thought his name was Arthur." Alfred is now fully awake, and remembers what happened last night. He still looks adorable, though, with that sleepy look in his eyes, and his jacket all rumpled.

"Just a little pet name I came up with for him," Francis says, half murmuring. "He didn't like it, but I told him that I _would_ give him a nickname. But that I'd let him pick, if he'd make minimal fuss. Angleterre, Mon Petit Lapin, or Iggy. He didn't like the French, especially when I wouldn't tell him what they meant, so he settled for Iggy. And I've gotten used to calling him that, though I actually prefer mon lapin."

"Why do you call him a rabbit?" Matthew asks, sitting down. "He's obviously British, so I understand why you might call him England, but why a rabbit?"

Francis chuckles, staring into the distance. "Because that's what he acted like at first, a scared little rabbit, jumping and starting. Especially once he realized that the little baby we were watching was… Anyways, he'd literally jump into the air at the slightest thing. And then he'd fall when he realized his wings were holding him up. I always assumed that he skipped orientation, except that I couldn't imagine him ever acting so irresponsible."

"Theres an orientation?" Matthew asks, confused.

Francis turns to him, cocking his head. "Do angels not get one?"

"Probably not…" Matthew murmurs. Then, so quiet the others don't hear him. "Or I they might have just forgotten to give one to _me_."

All of a sudden, Gilbert pipes up again. "Hey, Al! Where are you going?"

Alfred smiles as he continues walking down the street. "Away, remember? Nothings changed about that. I'm _already_ a thief, and it's possible that my mom's up by now. I'm not going back just to get in trouble for stealing some money those snobs across the street will never miss. _And_ I still want to meet Ludwig, Gil."

"Alfred, your mom's going to be worried."

Alfred laughs bitterly. "Then she can file a missing persons report, when she notices. I'll come back when she does."

Francis grins. Perhaps this would be interesting after boy seemed headstrong. Arthur was bound to lose patience quickly, and that was always fun to watch. And it would be interesting to see how Alfred reacted to Arthur, who was sometimes so stuffy. Especially since he was American. A laidback, _modern_ American at that. Arthur was very patriotic, and the fact that the British Empire ever lost a war to an upstart nation was always a point of contention for him.

"Wait a moment, Alfred," he calls. "I'll get Arthur."

Matthew holds back, scrutinizing the blue-eyed demon. Having had him as a Shoulder Demon, Matthew knew Francis's mindset. And, given what he had learned about Arthur, he doubted that his fellow Angel would appreciate waking up to find Francis taking advantage of him in any way. "Do you need help carrying him, Francis?" he says, sincere. "I know you aren't the most athletic."

"Non, mon ami canadien. I should be fine. Mon petit lapin is so light, I would think that he died from hunger, if it were not that all evidence of how you died is erased."

Francis picks up the Brit, quickly carrying him princess-style to Alfreds left shoulder.

Mattie is still worried. "Francis, Arthur belongs on the right shoulder, not the—"

Francis shushes him. "You'll wake him. He looks very peaceful right now, and I'd appreciate the sight of him refraining from speaking for a while longer." He says as he kneels next to Arthur, eyes twinkling in amusement. Examining the English Angels face, a new fancy strikes him, and he pokes at the mans thick eyebrows.

"Wonder what he'd do to me if I plucked those horrid eyebrows of his again." He murmurs quietly. "It's been a while since I tried that. Of course, I only succeeded once, and that was an accident…" Francis smiles. "It _would_ be worth it, though. If only for his reaction. Even if he chopped my hair off again."

Gilbert grabs a stunned Matthew, and flies back to the sunflower they were sitting on before, whispering in Mattie's ear.

"Birdie, is it just me, or has Francis been sounding…"

"Hopelessly in love." The Canadian finished. "Yes. But then, why…"

"Yes. Why stand by while Headquarters killed Alice? It doesn't make any sense."

**Good vibes going to those who review. I might even bake you some cookies, if I think your review well thought out and creative.**


	5. Chapter Four: Ivan

**So, I promised you regular updates over the summer, and instead I take a summer-long hiatus. This chapter is my only excuse. I have quite a few chapters after this already written, but then I realized that Ivan would need to be introduced earlier in the story if I wanted the storyline to flow the way I intend it to. I also apologize in advance for any OOCness on Ivan's part. I tried my best, but he was giving me trouble, whic h is another reason why this chapter took so long.**

Chapter Four; Ivan

Ivan sits at his desk, deep in thought, an open copy of George Orwell's Animal Farm in front of him. One of his Angels, Toris, is playing Uno with one of his Demons, Feliks, to pass the time, while his other Angel, Katyusha, and Demon, Natalya, nap.

His grandfather is at the door, tapping his foot. Toris looks ready to mention it, and his grandfather is just about to clear his throat, when Ivan looks up and turns to his grandfather, violet eyes cool.

They stay like that for a while, both obviously waiting for the other to speak first. With each tap of the grandfathers foot, Toris becomes grows anxious, and Feliks more amused.

The grandfather's Shoulder Spirits, a pair of old codgers who had been married in life, and had died side-by-side in a car accident, are on their respective shoulders, also tapping their feet as they scowl at the "young" (Feliks and Toris are actually older than them, if you go by years of experience, and Katyusha and Natalya are just as old, or even a little older.) "troublemakers."

Ivan isn't a fool. He knows that his grandfather either wants something from him, or is upset with him. And, since he can't remember doing anything he considers wrong, or even something that might upset his grandfather enough to justify a lecture, rather than a note on his door detailing punishment, he assumes that his grandfather wants something from him. And he isn't going to be the first to speak and make it easier for his grandfather to admit that he is in need of something.

Of course, even if he _had_ known of his grandfathers complaint against him, it wouldn't have made any difference. His grandfather would have never believed that he was innocent. After all, one can imagine that Ivans track record did nothing to promote his character. And his grandfather trusted no one in the house, other than his own angel, so none of the others would be able to vouch for him.

Admittedly, his grandfather had good reason. Katyusha and Natasha were both too infatuated with Ivan to ever betray him, and his mother was hardly better, though her main motivation was guilt. Besides which, she was always out shopping anyway, so she could hardly be called a reliable champion. As for the others, his mothers Shoulder Angel, Raivis, and Demon, Edward, as well as Toris, were too intimidated by Ivan to do so either, under normal circumstances, though sometimes Raivis would blurt out compromising information without thinking. And even though Feliks was _not_ intimidated by Ivan, or even particularly fond of him, he was a demon. Ivans grandfather did not even trust his own demon.

And though his grandfather was insistent on sending his Angel to watch Ivan often, she could hardly watch him every moment.

That's why, when his grandfather finally breaks the silence with accusations, Ivan stays silent.

Ivan hadn't taken either the money _or_ the food, though he wasn't in trouble for _that_. As his grandfather puts it, he doesn't _care_ if Ivan wants a snack sometimes, but Ivan needs to stick to his allowance when it comes to money. His grandfather never complained about his _mother's _spending habits, but that was only because Ivans mother was insufferable. As far as his grandfather was concerned, Ivan would _not _be allowed to take money without asking.

Nevertheless, if his grandfather had paused to think, he would have realized that, quite apart from this not being Ivans style, Ivan, who had a steady allowance despite the fact that he rarely bought anything, had no reason to take any extra cash. And that, even if he _had_, he would have admitted to it, since Ivan never really understood what upset his grandfather so much about what he considered to be, if anything, simple noncompliance. And even when he did something so heinous that even _he _recognized it as a misdemeanor, he was surprised by the strength of his grandfather's reactions.

Still, _someone_ had taken the money, and his mother only ever took credit cards. Not only was it easier, since she never had to worry about New York sales tax, or other added costs when she was out shopping in the city, it was also relatively cleaner than cash.

So someone must have actually broken in and stolen it. (Ivan was always thinking that they needed a more modern security system, but his grandfather was "old-fashioned" in many respects.) The only question was: who? A serious burglar would have taken more than a measly $500, and why the food? If anything, the small amount of money, coupled with the food, suggested either someone homeless, or a child, who hoped that, by taking a relatively small amount, the theft would go unnoticed. Which was probably why his grandfather, automatically assuming that locked doors were enough to keep out beggars, suspected him. Ivan can't help but feel a tiny inkling of respect for the thief, whoever they are. If his grandfather wasn't as strict and organized as he was, Ivan felt that such a trick might actually work.

A sharp pain brings his train of thought crashing into a wall, and as his grandfather begins another lecture about how Ivan never pays attention to him, he finds himself longing for Dedushka, his father's father.

When his father had still been alive, they had lived with Dedushka. He hadn't been part of a rich family then, since his grandfather had wanted nothing to do with the "low-life" son of a poor Russian immigrant who had run off with his daughter, and he felt no obligation to Ivan (they weren't exactly starving to death) though he still financed his daughters shopping trips. But those had been happier days. Dedushka had had a big farm in the northern half of the state, and though the work was sometimes hard, it was satisfying. And their "neighbors" (farms in New York aren't exactly on blocks, so by neighbors I mean those in the general vicinity) were nice enough, though Ivan used to think they were a bit strange, since they were Amish. But then, _their_ kids had thought that Dedushka and Babushka were strange, since they were Russian, and that his mother was strange because she drove around in a fancy car and still lived and acted like the city girl she was, even when she was at the farm. Often, when he sat outside, Ivan would find himself missing his old view of plants, hills, and trees, with few houses, and certainly no suburbia, blocking the sights, such as they were. When his mother took him in to New York City to visit Dedushka in the hospital, Ivan missed the farm much more intensely than usual, the crowds of people and loud sounds of life making him desperately wish for the peace and quiet in his old sunflower fields, and when he got home, he would hide among his sunflowers, a small piece of his old home still present in his new one.

His mother, on the other hand, had been and always would be a city girl through and through. She thrived on busy life and crowded places. After the fire, she had wanted to move deep into the city, had argued that the suburbs were inconvenient, and quiet. But Ivans grandfather liked the quiet, one of the only things about him that Ivan could honestly say he appreciated. In the city, he wouldn't have even been able to grow one of the small varieties of sunflower, let alone his Russian Mammoths, which he couldn't even grow now. Since she detested the country so much, his mother hadn't been around that much when he was younger, often staying with friends in the city, and she had once been away for an entire summer, the one right after kindergarten, when he had started to cultivate sunflowers. When school started, she came back to get her stuff, then left again, only coming back on holidays, and random weeks.

Since she was hardly around, most of his happiest memories didn't include her. Like the winter when, a few days before Novi God (New Years), which was their families biggest holiday.

Ivan, anxious for Ded Moroz and Snegurochka to bring his presents, despite the fact that there were still three days until Novi God Years, was sitting in the big armchair by the fire with Dedushka. The Angels and Demons on the back and arms, Babushka in the kitchen baking gingerbread, pastila, Vatrushka, chak-chak, apples, and Ivans favorite, Ptichie Moloko, in preparation for the coming holidays (western Christmas was already over, but they still had New Years, Orthodox Christmas, and Old New Years to celebrate.) And his father nearby, doing paperwork, or writing in his journal, pausing every once in a while to comment on the story that Dedushka was reading Ivan. Meanwhile, his mother was in the city, probably shopping for a new dress to wear to the ball drop in times square while they had their family dinner.

Still, she gave him expensive gifts, which, being the way _her _father had showed his love to her, was the only way she knew to show her love for him. And she loved him, and his father, and even got along with Dedushka and Babushka. But she _hated_ the farm.

There were other happy memories. Notably, midnight games of "find-your-father," courtesy of his fathers tendency to sleepwalk. "Help us find him," Babushka would say. "You're the best at it."

Ivan has to smile. He'd only been the "best" because he knew where to look: halfway between the chickens and the goats. Too late, he remembers that he was being yelled at. Accused of something.

Theft.

The smile angers his grandfather, who reaches out to grab Ivan by his long scarf, (which had once been pink, but had faded to a more tan-like shade), but not as much as the injustice of the situation angered Ivan.

He'd never stolen money, not once. Sure, back at the farm, when they went to the general store in the town nearest the farm (which was also where the library was, and where Ivan went to school when he was younger,) he might have pinched an extra few candies without paying, but he hadn't been rich then, and he'd known that they overpriced things in order to make a bigger profit anyway, so when they sold a candy for two dollars that would be one dollar at a big store, he'd buy one, and take another. But after he'd come to the suburb, he hadn't stolen anything. He had no reason to. His allowance made him richer in a month than he'd ever been on the farm.

And he'd been _trying_ to be "good" recently, not doing anything that he knew would make his grandfather yell at him, or anything that would send him to the principals office in school, even when he thought that not being allowed to do such things was ridiculous.

His grandfather pulls too hard, and the scarf comes undone, revealing the scars beneath. His grandfather had moved to hit him, seeing Ivan stumble back, and thinking that he was trying to get away, but he stops when he sees the scars.

"I'll leave your punishment on your door."

He leaves, and Ivan replaces the scarf, then lays down on the bed. Katyusha and Natalya are still sleeping, and Feliks had been enjoying the show. Toris seems like he might approach Ivan, but obviously thinks beter of it, because he doesn't.

Ivan's grandfather never hits him after he sees the scars from the fire. They remind him that Ivan has already suffered. They remind _Ivan_ that he no longer lives on the farm, because the farm is gone. Like his father, and Babushka. And Dedushka, too, because he was in a coma, and even Ivan doubts that he will ever wake up again.

That's why he always wears the long coat, and the scarf. Even though the scarf was pink at first. He doesn't want to be reminded of what he has lost, any more than he wants to be reminded of what was forced to do because of it: come here, to this life in suburbia. A rich kid in rich kid city. He had to rely on his mother now, and _she_ wasn't going back to the country.

It had been hard, though. Especially in the beginning, fresh from the fire, and shy s he had been, but even now, when the others no longer dared to pick on him. When he had first arrived at his grandfather's house, though, the bullying had been almost unbearable. There were numerous reasons for him to be a target. He was new, he was shy, he was a "country boy," and he always wore a long coat and pink scarf, which, while not poor or dirty, weren't new, designer, _or_ expensive, despite the fact that his family was rich, even among those in the neighborhood.

And the four Shoulder Spirits, of course.

Everyone wanted to know what he had done to earn an extra pair. Whether they were jealous, or just curious, wasn't entirely apparent, but it was one more thing to set him apart. Especially since he couldn't remember ever doing anything to warrant an extra two. He'd just… always had them, or nearly always. But when he'd told those who asked that he didn't remember, they'd assumed the same thing that his grandfather had. That is, they assumed that it was _really_ bad, something no one would want to admit to.

Which also meant that teachers watched him more closely, even as, assuming that someone who was enough of a problem child to have two pairs of Shoulder Spirits was more than capable of taking care of themselves, they turned blind eyes to those bullying him.

It was only a matter of time before the pressure cracked him, and after that, it was only natural for him to start living up to his reputation, though his intentions were, at the very least, not malicious.

He wanted friends, not enemies. Being shy wasn't working. So he became more so forceful in his endeavors for friends that he intimidated people into into being his friends, or at least leaving him alone. He also became overly friendly, and determined. The more he wanted someone to be his friend, the more insistent he was.

But at least once he was living up to his reputation, and, consequently, acting scarier, the bully's were dissuaded.

Being accused of and punished for something he actually did had never bothered him, since half the punishments he was given didn't affect him, and the other half weren't enforced. But to be accused of this, something he hadn't done, and wouldn't have done, angers him. The fact that his grandfather would never believe that he was innocent added the sting of insult to injury. Because he'd always done what he'd been accused of, this was a new feeling, which meant it was also more intense.

He would find whoever was responsible for this.

He would make them pay, make them confess.

Clear his name.

**Well? What do you people think? I tried to incorporate some of the advice that I've received via review, and I would like to thank firelight3 and Sentariana (sorry I couldn't have progressed more with Alfred ths time, but as I said, this chapter needed to be here) for their appreciative reviews, and a huge thanks to PersonifyThis, for her awesome constructive criticism! I didn't think it "nit picky" in the least.**

**I look forward to all of your guy's input on this most recent chapter!**


	6. Chapter Five: Unexpected Developements

**So, I **_**was **_**hoping for a couple more reviews before I updated again, but this chapter's so short that I'm not going to be stingy. I actually would have updated this one on the 20th, my birthday, but things happened and I didn't get the chance to actually update it today, though I finished typing it on Monday. Anyway, here you go...**

Chapter Five; Unexpected Developments

"Is he alright?" Alfred asks, worried, holding the still-sleeping Arthur in his hands. "You said that he usually wakes up a few hours after you, didn't you?"

Francis is hovering nearby, frowning. "Yes, I did. He's very dutiful, despite, or perhaps because of, everything, and he would never knowingly leave an assignment unattended. Under normal circumstances, though, we choose how long we 'sleep.' So, unless his few assignments have been particularly taxing, and he figured that Matthew could handle Gilbert and myself while he rested, I don't know of any reason for him to not be conscious."

Matthew is pouting as he sits on Alfreds shoulder. "Thats a joke. Alfred didn't listen to me when I only had Gilbert to compete with. As it is, I've given up until Arthur wakes up."

Gil pokes at him, trying to get him to react. "Come on, Birdie. It's not as awesome keeping Alfred on the path of Fun and Naughtiness without you complaining about it."

Alfred grins, adding, "And I do _hear_ you, Mattie. I just don't see why I have to listen, half the time. And I _do_ listen the other half. Like when you talked me out of stealing Mom's grocery money for this adventure."

"And then you stole from your neighbors!"

"Who are much richer than Mom and won't be affected by the loss in the least."

Matthew looks ready to continue the argument, but then sighs in surrender. Alfred is always willing to bend rules when it comes to moral conflicts. Always justifying himself when it comes to doing wrong. Which is part of the reason why he's been reevaluated at ten years old.

Francis kneels, gathering Arthur into his arms once more. "Alfred, if you're still serious about running away, then I suggest that we get as far as we can from your house while mon lapin is still asleep."

Alfred nods, placing them on his shoulder, and sets off at a determined pace, picking turns at random.

"You're going to get us lost," Matthew remarks, slightly bored.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mattie," Alfred retorts over his shoulder. "You can't get lost when you don't know where to get where you're going in the first place."

**See? It's **_**really**_** short. As is my review thank-you list. Which is comprised of North13, who I would like to thank for her complementary review. If you think my story line's imaginative **_**now, **_**I can't wait to see what you'll think of my **_**next**_** chapter.**

**Until then!**

**~Serena**


	7. Chapter Six: Oliver

**Hello, again. I wanted to wait a bit longer before giving you this chapter, saw, a few more review, maybe, but then I thought… Why not. I'll give it to you now. Mostly because I really like this chapter.**

**Also, I'm officially putting this story on Wattpad.**

Chapter Six; Oliver

Arthur's continued sleep was by no means his choice. Nor was it particularly restful.

"Arthur," a voice purrs. It can only be described as a purr. It sounds dark, dangerous.

Eerily familiar.

"What do you _want_?" Arthur snarls. This was the voice from when he was alive, the voice from the battle to protect his daughter.

The voice that had haunted him at his every turn. Every assignment. No matter where he went, or how much he drowned himself in drink or sleep between jobs. It didn't matter how busy he kept himself.

Or how desperately he tried to run away.

But that voice, that damned voice, had never actually shown up in his dreams. It had always been a few taunting words here, a laugh there, once in a while a sarcastic comment, but always while he was conscious. And _never_ a conversation. And even now, the voice wasn't answering him. Just laughing, laughing, laughing…

"I said, _what do you want!?_"

Again, with that bloody laugh. It still turns him cold, even after all these years. That laugh, and then the sickening realization that no one had won. The slow turn, to the sight of Alice's soul, shattered and twisted. And the anger, at Headquarters, and at the voice.

That voice had possessed the damned frog. It had made that bastard turn on him when he'd needed an ally most, though it had not fought for Headquarters either. And, after, a mixed blessing; rearranging the Demon's memory. Making it so that Francis hadn't begged for forgiveness, probably still thought that he'd been out scouting when Headquarters had launched a surprise attack, and been too far to hear Arthur calling him.

But Francis had been on the battlefield, laughing, but not with his own voice. With _that _one. Had given that last, bloodcurdling laugh as they all realized their mistake, and then stopped. Francis, on the ground in a heap, and Alice, gone past even death.

Maybe if he hadn't stood in Headquarters way, then at least Alice's soul would still be whole. But that didn't matter now. Now, all he could do was pay penance. Pay penance, and hope that time would heal his daughters wounds.

And he couldn't blame anyone but himself, not even the bloody frog, because he _knew_ it wasn't the Frenchman's fault. The voice knew Arthur's weaknesses, knew Arthur better than Arthur knew himself (which is totally unfair, because Arthur knows next to nothing about _him_.) The voice knew that Arthur wouldn't be able to stand losing both Alice _and_ Francis. Never. Though he'd also never admit that to the French Demon. And Headquarters couldn't have known what the result of their actions would be. If they had, they would have stopped once Arthur had made it clear that he would resist them, no matter what. They didn't believe in waste.

"Well, then, it's been nice 'chatting' with you, but if all you wanted to do was laugh at me, you can do it while I'm conscious."

More laughter. Arthur tries to wake up, focusing on contacting his physical self, only to find a barrier.

As if it can sense his frustration, the voice begins to laugh more vigorously, guffawing as though he had just been told the funniest joke in the world.

"Bloody ecstatic that I amuse you. Really, I am. But, if you don't mind, I'd like to wake up now."

"Oh, but _Arthur_," the voice whines, "You just got here."

"Yes, I _did_," Arthur concedes. "But I've seen, or, rather, _heard_, enough for me to know that once is more than enough for me. So, if you please, I'd like to wake up now. If you _must_, you can contact me while I make sure that Francis doesn't turn that boy into a criminal mastermind."

"Such a gentleman," the voice taunts. It's closer now, in his ear. As if someone were whispering a secret to him while hanging upside down. He could feel hair, cut short, maybe even in a similar style to his own, and cold lips.

"But you see, Arthur, that would simply be no _fun_. I'm finding that it's much more amusing when you actually _talk _to me."

Arthur bolts a few feet, to rid himself of the sensation of whatever-that-was, and turns to see… nothing.

Of course. It couldn't ever be that easy.

But that did slightly narrow the suspect list. Whoever was tormenting him had to be invisible, capable of turning invisible, or very, very fast.

"Let me see your face, you coward." Arthur spits, disdainful and disgusted.

Not a full laugh, this time. A chuckle. "Oh… Very well."

A face flickers in. Arthur catches a few glimpses. A shock of strawberry-blond hair. Blue eyes, ringed with pink. And the unsettling feeling of looking into a funhouse mirror.

Then he's looking into Francis's face, the frogs arms behind his back, just below his wing joints, and beneath his knees.

He closes his eyes again quickly. Damn it, but he's tired. More tired than he's ever been before, even when he was alive. Tired, not just of a long life of service, but of everything else, too. Tired of existence. Tired of guilt. But more than that, he was just plain exhausted.

He manages to hear snippets of a conversation, something about not getting lost, before falling into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

**Here, I would like to thank the guest who cared enough to leave a comment, though it was only one word. And to pastaaddict, who commented six hours ago. You're the reason I relented about waiting a bit longer to update.**

**~Serena**


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